Library Tuesday:Babysitter Sitting on the Baby

Dear Little Boy,

You saw a poster with an actress holding "Light in the Attic" and noticed how funny it was that there was a drawing of a house on a guy's forehead.  We were sitting in the Non-Fiction, fun science book section, and I saw an image I was so familiar with, that I had actually taken it for granted.

We were in the Ft Washington branch (one of the few times we have walked anywhere alone, I just realized.  When your Mom was around, we did a lot of walking around the neighborhood.)

So I ran over to the kids section we were just in, where you found all the Cat Power novels. I had recognized it out of the corner of my eye, but it could be just an illusion.  I read one or two poems to you.  And we both laughed.  Especially the one about the Babysitter who thinks you are supposed to sit on the Baby.  You pointed out the feet sticking out from under her butt.

You got a 6 books (5 cat ones, 1 Bunnicula) and 3 DVDs, all Pokemon.  I got 8 books, some in Spanish, like Dr Seuss.  Some science-y ones too.  We need to do more science experiments.  Especially if your Dad is gonna be a science teacher.

One of the best things about being friends with someone is getting to share all your favorite stuff with them, to introduce it to them.  You get to experience it again for the first time.  Like the Monkees.  Like Shel Silverstein.  Like reading and telling stories and jokes.  (You called my name over and over and over again when I was in the bathroom, and when I got out, I did it to you too.  "Hey, hey, hey, hey....  Hi"  I guess we have a shared joke now)

We read a bunch of them when we got home.  And had pizza, I was really hungry, too.  Fun just hanging out with each other.  I told Jin that he had a nice smile when we saw him on 180th st on the way home.  You said, "I never hear anyone saying that someone has a nice smile,"  I hope I'm not teaching you to talk to strangers.  I think you were appreciating an act of goodwill on my part.  Simple. Beautiful.

(Later, after you had gone to bed and your dad and I both read Tintin to you.  I was thinking about what a lovely day I had had.  He asked if you "pressed my buttons", I think because we aren't related and I get to be a grownup, but also a friend, maybe a sister, definitely a roommate. we get to just hang out.  You are honestly the best, most honest relationship I have in my life right now.

When you were probably asleep and the house was quiet, I heard a story on "This American Life".  About a girl who grew up in a house where her father would get drunk and abusive and violent.  And to this day he denies it all.  I'm thinking that this "sickness in the head" involves a lot of forgetting.

I'm thinking here of the Grown Man.

I haven't heard much from him lately.  A weird set of drunk texts before New years, a quick email.  I still don't know if it's him not having enough confidence to talk to me, or if he is genuinely afraid to see anyone for any reason (especially when it might involve becoming friends with them).  Sometimes, I think I should be relieved that I've dodged a bullet.

I'm writing this to you because I think we are both in the weird place of loving people who have a mental illness.  I think that your Mom and him, my friend, (you said his name, his real name, not his nickname, Superman, a few days ago) have the same disease.  He told me his diagnosis.  Mixed Bipolar. I don't think your Mom has an official diagnosis yet.  Either way, they need to be careful.  And so do we.  They are both beautiful people who have moments of ugly.  Your Mom was really depressed and had to go away to deal with it all.

My friend, I think, hides, when it comes on.  But I think he hides when it isn't there too.  Just to be safe. He lives down the hall from us and I don't know what to do to make friends with him any more than I have already.  (I try to tell myself that he's not interested in my friendship.  Which is fine, and if I sensed that were the case, I'd leave it.  But when he talks to me, he opens up.  But he hasn't lately.  So I'm keeping my distance. And I'll be happy to, for the rest of my life. But if he needs me as a friend, I'm here.  I wish I could go back to being friends with your Mom too, because I think she needs a friend.  But she scares me. And I think I've betrayed her deeply.  She'll never forgive me and I've seen her angry now. So I can't go back to trusting she won't blow up at me. I need friends who won't do that.)

Do you remember your Mom's birthday last year?  We walked down to Buddha Bar on Broadway and 190th.  You discovered I had a video camera on my phone and took shots of the bar.  You had such energy that you were running back and forth in front of us and at one point, you ran all the way up that steep hill that has the old houses with the bad vinyl siding on them.  The VERY steep hill.  A guy came up behind us and joked with you as you were running and you guys ran up together. And then you ran down.  joyful.  I still remember that.

Maybe that's what else I'm here for.  To remember your memories for you.  Clearly.

"All This Life is a Ghost of You"

Icelandic group "Of Monsters and Men"
http://www.ofmonstersandmen.com/

"Though the truth may vary/
this/
Ship will carry/
Our bodies/
Safe to shore"

Why is Iceland such a glorious place for you?
The last conversation we had, sitting in the car, you told me you were there in summer.  How they had complained of the heat, 72 degrees Farenheit!!
And we both shared a smile.  (I needed it, and you probably did too)

I think you might have taught Philosophy for a summer session.

All those pictures you sent me, when we first started talking.  You had been so quiet, so hard to pin down for a conversation.  But easy enough to see on the street or in the hallway.  We would stop and chat.

And "chat".  (How carefree you looked, going through your mail over the recycling bin.  Right next to each other, the mailroom and the recycling.  Why bring trash into your apartment?)

I was going to ask you right then, almost as a joke, "What lessons has the universe been teaching you lately that you need to teach to me?"  Because we ran into each other so often within one week!

Now I think you are in bed more than you aren't.

(And I don't know what's going on with you, and how we are so different.  Maybe I am the same crazy as you)

==
"King and Lionheart" video

You are the color in my drab lanscape. (Maybe I'll always spell that word wrong)
This opens with people being torn apart.
(Why does the kid, look like the Kid?)
I run and run from the evil bad guys who are always angry.
Somehow some magic appears beneath my feet, and instead of gravity, I run along a temporary glowing dirt bridge.
I run and I run,
but you are crying, locked in a tower that has become a spaceship.
And with all my magic, I am left to run on the ground, trapped by angry bad guys and gravity.
Even though we have been running towards each other this whole time.
(I have faith the blackness covers the future, and that everything turns out well)
==
 There has to be some way we can talk.  Through art.

I think I will send you music.  It worked yesterday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4O1iq3yEqXU

I sent you Mary Wells, you wrote back, "Great stuff." Because you wrote that I "Beat You To the Punch". (And that you had been thinking about me yesterday.  Nothing about how we saw each other.  And I didn't write to you until 10:30.  What were you waiting for?)

Tomorrow, maybe, I can send you "Our Little Talks"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I

I miss our little talks.  

Your Funny Father

I am writing this down because right now, it is not funny.

(But it will be in about 10 years, or less)

You, Little Boy, do not like to eat food.  You'll nibble at a few bites of bagel or hot pretzel or cereal or pizza or chicken nuggets.  Maybe apple and celery.

And the idea of new food (broccoli, pasta!, or soup, goes against your very being.  Your Mom's family had very sensitive noses and she hates Cilantro, so you've probably got some sensitivity gene.)

And your Poop is large and scary.  (And kinda funny, how can something that hard and large come out of such a tiny, skinny body?)  And it clogs the toilet regularly. (Ironically enough, because you are not so regular)

Like a scene in a movie, think "A Christmas Story" (not "Godzilla"), your father is driven crazy by this.  He gets very angry and frustrated.  He keeps a knife in the shower.  Y'know, to cut it up.  Unless, of course, your crazy roommate decides to flush it.  And cause a clog.

The bottom of the toilet bowl is utterly scratched up and you can hear him swearing for miles.

We need to put Metamucil (that old people's stuff) in your drinks.

==
Your Father and I tried to talk to you about your Mom today. And you got goofy.  (Which is some coping mechanism, like reverting or just being silly when we are trying to find emotional resolution.  But I get it.)

You knew about last summer, before "all that stuff" happened.  How sad she was (and I asked you if she was happier since then, because I hope it's true.  I want it to be true.)  I asked you to give her a hug for me.  After Xmas, she texted me that she SHOWED you all the texts she sent me.  About me jumping the gun.  I think if I had gone over there to talk to her, I would never have been sure about leaving her alone.  She wanted me to babysit you to give her time off (I didn't want to leave her alone).  And I called.  And I don't regret that.
I'm sorry that you guys had to see all that, all the police and the ambulance.  But I'm glad she got help.  I don't know how it could have happened any other way.

I love you guys.  Give her a hug because I never will be able to.  I don't think she'll ever forgive me.  (And I don't know how to be friends with her any more)

==
It's the coldest night of the year. 25 degrees.  It's nice to be in this apartment. (I have all my art and Mousetraps up on the walls.)  I wonder what this room was like back when they were still in love.  I think they fought a lot back then too.  Sometimes, that's how people love.  They allow themselves to FEEL strongly when it comes to someone else.  (Which is awful!  And wonderful.  Maybe Love can make you act like a Bipolar person a little.  Some happy some sad).  And you want them near you all the time when they are gone and you can't stand them when they are near.  It's painful and mysterious.

Good luck to you, kid. When you find your loves in life.  Enjoy them and treat them well.  And let them treasure you.

Exhuberant Painting

Little boy, tonight you came into my room before dinner and saw the dogs roaming around.

You are very observant, and weeks ago, you noticed the thumb piano I had brought from Boston and hung on my mirror.  You found it days later and started playing.  You played it tonight, sitting on my bed.

You saw that I had done some Mousetraps a few nights ago (they lay drying on the floor). And you asked to do some.  I cannot say no to you.

We sat on the floor and I tried to point out the exquisite grain of the wood which create magnificent horizon lines.  You decided to take my gloss enamels and pour paint and smush two flat sides together to create a Rorsacht blot. One looked like peanut butter (brown and yellow) and one looked like lime (blue and green).

Now, I use tiny brushes.  I chose Mousetraps for their small size and ease of storage. But I fear your father will throw yours out the next time he cleans.  And I fear you will use up all my supplies.

I am careful to brush away the excess fully and use it for the next canvas; you allowed paint to drip and coat the surface fully, so that it takes hours to dry.

You are certain of food regularly, to the point that you will onlt eat foods that won't make you throw up (I fear you have a VERY sensitive stomach)  pretzels and cereal and pizza and eggs.  That's it.

I bought pita chips and cottage cheese and hummus and seltzer.  I eagerly eat hamburgers when I am out with friends because I don't allow myself meat, or anything that costs money.

You made wallets out of paper and colored masking tape last weekend for the huge piles of coins you are accumulating.  I am running out of paper and plastic and my bank account will be so empty by the time the Monkees convention rolls around, I am thinking about ---.  But I have NO health insurance, so that's that.  I think about how sad it will be to pack to move back to my mother's house.  A failure again, but I cannot find a different possibility.  I miss you already, kid.

So even though I was cringing, watching you pour all my gloss aqua blue onto paper (graph paper!!), just because the bottle allows you to squeeze it.  You squoze it in a dance, a creation of gesture-not pigment.

And I miss you already, even though you are only asleep across the hall.

Our Eyes Met

Of course, what I am familiar with
is the striving for the thing I cannot grasp
Extending my body fully, extending into the sky, my fingers
Curved like a bow,
The pictures he sent, of Iceland.
Enchanting and glistening like oil paint,
teasing me with their size and their monochrome.
I wanted
I want to capture them
These GRAND landscapes
(lance-capes)
volcanic vistas and waters,
roads, unending on a small large island
I love that I could try to paint them 500 times
and never get them right.
But even the failures could be beautiful.
And so it is with you,
I have tried 500 times with you,
(more maybe, and there will be more in the future)
500 hellos.  
500 gestures, countless, even.
And today our eyes met.
I MISS you.
I was carrying 3 bags and 2 dogs
were trying to trip me.
I walked through OUR courtyard
and you were in your kitchen.
Our eyes met through the gauzy curtain you have.
Did you hate me then?
Did you recognize me?
I would allow myself sadness, or torture,
but it is a dull ache now.

I knew from the beginning that I could never paint Iceland.
And I always knew that we would not have a normal friendship.
That you were not someone I could invite over for Doritos, or I could come over for coffee,
But even the mistakes and failures are beautiful.
I ache for the days of sitting in the car with you
and even, stumbling words, I could make you laugh.
Seeing a carefree smile on your face is like
seeing a picture of a mountain against the clear cold blue sky
and feeling the wind, from a photograph.

I can keep you on a wall, on a shelf,
frozen, hibernation, music held on pause.
But I saw you,
and I know you saw me.
Is this the Bipolar part?
The depressed, scared part that regrets opening up to me during a manic episode?
I know you prefer to keep yourself hidden.
You opened up to me and I saw a treasure.
But now you keep yourself buried.
Send me away if you hate me.
Or send me a message if you can, smuggle it out to me.
As I know you have.
(Here I know I should be careful what I ask for.
But I'd like a conversation too.
Some kind of exchange. Something real time,
in person.
I know it scares you, or that you are hesitant about it
But I don't know why.

"I used to live in West Berlin.  The East Germans called the Wall an "antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"/"anti-fascist defense installation".  "

in person.
A few months ago, October (really?) you got your phone.
And you emailed me.
You called, and we spoke for 5 minutes.
You said it was something to tell your therapist about.
We haven't spoken much since.
The brunch and the pizza barely count
(I know she must think I'm a bad influence somehow,
that maybe I want something from you, maybe from you both.
Or that I am just plain insane, and better to stay away from)

There must be a few walls between us, literally.
My bedroom wall, then the next apartment, 
the older lady, American, very nice.
Then our dead neighbor,
she must have a few walls and windows.
And then your outside wall.
Maybe 5, not quite as many as 10.
Bigger than the Great Wall of China
"antifaschistische Verteidigungseinrichtung"
and anything in Germany.

I miss you like I miss the Dead.
Like I miss all those friends I loved when I said goodbye
and they rode away from my arms,
never to be seen again.
I never know when you will break through that wall.
Or if I should wait.
I miss you sir,
heal yourself.

I will keep singing to you, even if you can't hear the song.

Through Art

Exploring your feelings through art . . .

If we were talking (that is, if you asked me to coffee), I would talk about this article.

http://theater.nytimes.com/2009/11/12/theater/12greeks.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

About how soldiers attend a reading of Sophocles (who was a General, did you know that?  I just found out.  WOW.) and how it helps them to begin talking about issues.  Especially those who have trouble with talk therapy, and those, whom I would guess, have trouble discussing their own feelings.

Because there's also a movie I want to bring up.  About a main character, who has just come out of a mental health facility, and who is bipolar. (Silver Linings Playbook).  The female character is in mourning for her husband who died.  And she's a little wacky too, but not completely diagnosed.

When they first meet, they have an incredibly open and honest conversation about their medications and issues they are working on.  There was an interview with the director (whose son has mental health issues) and Lopate was saying how both characters have issues relating to society.

I think I was expecting you to keep talking.

I was so glad to see someone who could peel back the mask we all wear (especially in NYC).  I peeled mine back as well.  And I don't like doing that.

I liked who I saw behind your mask.

I miss him.

I still get mad and frustrated and bored and annoyed and lonely and bitter towards you for being so quiet. (Sorry, that's me being a person. And wanting to expect things from you.  Wanting so badly to have you show yourself again.)

Shrug.

Most of the time, I just picture everything in hibernation.  You are up on a shelf like a teddy bear.  (A teddy bear that came to life once upon a time).  I can't expect magic to happen just because I work very hard wishing for it.  There's something about patience.

I'm still here.

And I guess I'll wait until you want to reach out.  However long that takes.  Maybe Spring (it's -4 out right now, in this true January).  Maybe when your new meds even you out.  Maybe after this Depression lifts.  Or maybe never.  (Maybe you are making me the bad guy, or are mad that I responded to you the last time you were in a manic phase, or maybe you've just forgotten about me.  Whatever)

I, myself, am doing well. (Emotionally, anyway).  Keeping myself busy with projects to take over the world.  The good kind of tired that comes from working hard.  (Applying for gigs too)  When the weather is just above freezing, I go out and listen to music (although not tonight, I can't bear to go outside!!!).  Usually I go with friends.  I try to keep a good balance of alone time and people time.

(I try not to write to you too much.  It confuses me.  Sometimes I want you to try harder.  Sometimes I know you can't.  Or you don't want to. Or whatever.  I just know that I don't want to send you letters, not knowing how you'll react to them at all.  If you'll like them, or just delete them or if they would make you feel terrible somehow.  So I'll just keep talking to you here.)

Just so you know I haven't forgotten about you.

(I haven't done a book or anything for you in a long time.  Maybe for R's Mom.  I need to do something for someone, or for myself.  Art takes the place of actual emotion)

How He Became the Invisible Man

Prince Charming was out of work.

This happens to them regularly.  It's the downside of being successful in this line of work.  You find the fair maiden, slay the dragon, complete the quest.  And then you have nothing to do.

This "Happily ever after" business is strict bullshit.  Being happy full time is BORING.

So, he's out of work, wandering around, hoping to do SOMETHING vaguely related to his line of work (maybe he has lots of student loans that he's gonna have to pay back in a few months, whether he's working as a Knight or as a Busboy, so he should stick with the Knight track if he can).

Walking down the street, in a strange neighborhood, he emerges from the subway and notices that nobody is talking to him.  Nobody is seeing him, even. He is suddenly rendered invisible.

Before, he was certainly the normal type of neurotic (especially as a teenager) who was convinced that EVERYONE was looking at him.  Now, he had a distinct sense that he could travel through the busiest streets, the most crowded cities, even looking people in the eyes, and NO ONE would see him.

At first, it was quite freeing.  He scared himself enough times that he wanted to figure out how to reverse the spell.  Easy.  As with many things in his capitalist society, all he had to do was pull money out of his pocket.  Engage in some kind of transaction.  I consume, therefore, I am.

And when he didn't buy anything, he could go for hours being alone & invisible.

Certainly, there were days when he didn't leave his apartment.  And the damsel whom he had married always seemed to see him when they were home.  Most of the time. (But even that he questioned, sometimes).

Mostly, he was happy to curl into a ball, to hide, to walk among the living without being bothered.  Now and then he would get lonely, and want to be seen for something other than a consumer.  It felt like  the lowest form of life.   But often, it would be too late.  He'd talk to people, asking for conversations.  And then he'd notice other invisible people.  Trying to blend into the background.

It terrified him. Not the discovery that lots of other people knew his secret of invisibility.  But that actually being visible to other people was the real trick of magic.  And he had lost the ability to evoke it.  Like losing a language, like losing speech.

It made him want to become permanently invisible.  

Invisible Man

(To the grown man)

This is how I would like to be friends:

I'd like for you to abandon your self righteous work ethic when it comes to moments of importance.  Instead of getting up to work at 7am, I'd like you to invite me over for coffee.  (You work from home and we're neighbors, this isn't so wild a theory).

And a little kindness on your part, when I am struggling, will go a long way.  And maybe you'll feel a little more secure with yourself.  And this Bipolar thing.  (I know it's this HUGE thing for you, a mountain you face everyday.  But, creep over it, step by step).

From personal experience, I know that getting into positive habits are good things.  (Here I'm thinking of the habit of you talking to people, like me)

Of course, I doubt everything.  I certainly have little to no faith that we will ever be any kind of friends.  (I think maybe you changed who you think I am, when you told me about your diagnosis.  I hate you for that.  For opening up and then staying away.  I give you the benefit of the doubt because of your diagnosis.  But I hate you for it too.  For holding out your hand to me and then disappearing into thin air.)

So the only way I can deal with you is erase you from my life.  Not think of you.  Sometimes, I am even good at this. Not now, not today.

Today I want to call you and ask if I can come over for coffee because I want to cry.  Because it's cold outside and I'm trying to look forward to a day in Brooklyn.  Because I have a bump and I have no health insurance.  I want to cry because I am a hopeless mess and I need a shoulder.  I want to cry because there are so many beautiful things in my life just beneath the surface and there is a huge layer of ice between us.

I want to cry because I miss you.  That man who was excited about his leather bound OED.  Who hugged me. Who is afraid.

Is this your version of Bipolarity?  The extremes of opening up and then shutting down?  How much of this is your own personality?  (I am waiting because you told me to be patient, but I think you have forgotten about me)

Drunk Texting

So you wanted to reach out a few days after Xmas. You gave me a present before I left, so I'm guessing we're still "friends".  Even though we haven't connected since we talked after Sandy Hook.  (Boy, was I a mess)

I'm 200 miles away.  Watching "The Way We Were".  And you start texting me.

8:26pm
"Have a good new year.""With plenty of health."
"And warmth and good work and all good things."

8;53pm
"It's hard to find one's calling"
"Death, as I have learned, presses the question."
"Particularly our own deaths"

I tried to call.

"Ar dinner,  we are"
"Reverse word order"

"RToward the end of his life, Charlie Parker went to morgues to look at people.  He said he was "looking for a friend".  He would ride the A-Train for hours and hours"
"You are confusing him with John Coltrane")
Relatively okay.) (Response to R's mom)

10:20
"I am a dark soul.  Be careful"

No matter what I write to you, you are not responding to me.  I'm guessing (from experience) when you write to me on Fridays or Saturdays, that you have been drinking.

I tried sending you pictures of art I saw on New Year's Eve (I was wandering around Northampton)  No response.

I wrote to you, a week later, literally just "Hi!"

You sent back an email saying that you were going out of the country.  That day.  Which means that your plans have changed and that someone's mother is sicker than you realized.  It also means that maybe the jet lag is going to kick in like it did last time.  You won't be able to sleep for 48 hours, or longer.  And that makes anyone crazy. ("The difference between neurosis and psychosis is 2 hours of sleep").

I don't understand what you are trying to tell me.  And why you can't talk to me during the day, normally.  And I wish you could explain yourself.

And I'm not expecting that you will ever talk to me again.  (And I'm okay with that)

"I Wish I Had a Button"

This is our actual conversation tonight.

Me: How do you spell that?

You (8 Year Old Boy):"B-U-T-I-N"

And later, watching a commercial for Pinocchio  . . .

You:I wish I had a button that I could push it and I could . . .

What would your wishes be?  Like your top 5?

First, I would push the button to make all magic real.

Then I would get a magic wand.

Then I would learn all the Elements.

What do you mean?  The Elements?

Like,  Water and  . . .  Fire.  I would wish for water from the river to fly, and I could just flick it . . .

(We're watching Adventure Time, and a Japanese speaking rainbow unicorn is pregnant with puppies.  And there are a few scenes that scare you.  A black and white nightmare scene, where a hand-held Playstation thing turns forward and he suddenly has the face of a boy.  Drawn more realistically.  Is it the robots turning into humans thing that scare you?)

So can you put on Youtube?

(Dude, you are already watching tv!)  This computer is only for Work, not for Having Fun.  (Sorry, besides, I'm trying to keep track of all your wishes and how real you are as an 8 year old human.)